The following is a letter that Rob wrote to NHE counselors, the two purposes of which
are to clarify his expectations of how well NHE counselors are to know NHE and to offer
inspiration. The actual "story" begins at the 4th paragraph.
To: NHE Counselor Prospects
The Rules Letter was necessarily blunt so
that everyone understands where they stand and what is expected of them. Apparently, this forceful document generated
considerable apprehension, not because counselor prospects question their moral fitness to
abide by the ethical rules, but because they question whether their knowledge of NHE is
sufficient to "avoid disappointing my high expectations." I appreciate this
concern, and I would like the opportunity to address it.
While I don't deny having high
expectations of NHE counselors, I understand that although I eat, sleep, and breathe NHE -
you cannot be expected to do the same. I realize that being an NHE counselor would be one
of many other activities and obligations you have, and you may never become an NHE wizard.
I merely ask that you try your best, which means making a determined effort to master NHE
to the best of your ability by keeping up with Ask Rob postings and not merely reading but
studying all Extique products.
Here's a true story that I think you'll
find amusing, insightful, and helpful to you in deciding whether to accept the challenge
and opportunity facing you.
As you may know, I served as a teaching
and research assistant for the honorable and venerable John Francis Yetter, professor of
law (he's quoted a couple of times in the book, and he appears in the Acknowledgments).
This prestigious position is offered to the 2nd-year law student who achieves
the highest grade in a particular subject. I was assigned to Yetter by a twist of fate,
when Professor Goldstein, the guy whose class I aced, died unexpectedly. Yetter had been
close friends with Goldstein, and he knew a lot more about me than I knew about him at the
time we got paired up.
On the first day of class, it is
customary for the professor to introduce his assistant. Rather than simply point to me and
announce, "that's my teaching and research assistant, Rob Faigin"; Yetter
introduced me to the class in the most unforgettable fashion. As class began, I was
lounging comfortably in a chair at the back of the classroom looking forward to my cushy,
"easy money" job. (Knowing me, I probably had a fitness magazine tucked away
inside my law textbook.) Yetter, a scholar of surpassing brilliance who is more than a tad
eccentric, opened his lesson with a sermon about how legal education has changed over the
years. "In the old days," he explained, "they didn't spoon-feed you like we
do today." He then picks-up from behind his podium, using all the might in both arms,
the thickest book I have ever seen in my life (picture an unabridged dictionary, then
multiply the page count by three - a grotesque monstrosity of a book). Yetter drops the
book on a nearby table, and I thought it was thundering outside. He continues, "Back
in those days, they'd give you a book like this and tell you to go home and memorize it.
Now, no one could possibly memorize everything
in this book. . . (he paused for effect, then continued, his voice pitched low) with the
exception of one man. . . (suspense mounting as he raises his arm in slow-motion, index
finger pointing in my direction). . . Rob Faigin." At once, there was a collective
gasp and all seventy heads turned to gaze upon me with mouths agape and eyes large with
awestruck wonder and perhaps a touch of fear. My first instinct, call it self-defense, was
to turn my head too, pretending to search for this Rob Faigin fellow. Instead, realizing
that such an effort at deception would be futile, I sat there wearing a sheepish
half-smile (by default, since I couldn't figure-out the proper facial expression for such
a moment); and immediately began plotting my revenge against this practical jokster posing
as a professor. I would soon learn, however, that there was a method to Yetter's madness;
and what appeared to be a random act of playful cruelty was shrewdly calculated toward a
benevolent and constructive objective.
Two weeks later, my first study session
set an attendance record, drawing the largest crowd in the history of the law school's
Student Assistance Program. Students came early to get a seat, which proved wise because
by the time the session began students lined the back wall prepared to take notes in a
standing position. Because of the way Yetter had astronomically hyped me in the days
leading up to my first session, I knew that I'd be giving my three-hour presentation to a
"sell-out crowd" eager to see and hear a star prodigy in action. Feeling forced
by Yetter's outrageous characterizations of me to demonstrate a brilliance I did not
possess, I prepared far more extensively than I otherwise would have, and gave a
commendable performance - then, and throughout the rest of the semester. Like a kitchen
sponge, Yetter squeezed out of me every drop of ability I had. His confidence in me
translated to confidence in myself. It turned out to be one of the best experiences of my
life. I came to appreciate how much I loved researching and teaching, and I gained
self-assurance as a public speaker. Thanks to Professor Yetter, who saw a potential in me
that I was not aware existed, I became the only teaching assistant in the program's
history to be asked to return for a second term (there had been a rule against that, which
the Dean of Student Affairs amended to allow for my reappointment). The outpouring of
testimonials from students was unprecedented - foreshadowing testimonials years later from
NHE readers. By all accounts, I upstaged my mentor - and no one was happier about it than
Yetter. Perhaps the NHE Counselor Program can help you tap into the enormous potential
that you possess. And perhaps you can help your clients actualize their potential. But in order to achieve, we must first believe.
Professor Yetter taught me this, and I'm trying to pass his wisdom on to you.
There is another way in which this story
pertains to NHE counselors, and this relates to the issue of how well you are expected to
know NHE. I will pick-up where I left off. . . standing behind a podium, my stomach home
to a swarm of butterflies, prepared to begin my first presentation of the semester, in a
packed house of law students chatting amiably with each other while getting their notepads
and laptops situated. I raise my hands, signaling my intent to begin, and a hush falls
over the room. I open with the following statement: "Between Professor Yetter and me,
we know everything there is to know about criminal law - go ahead, ask me anything."
I scan the room with my eyes, students look at each other, no takers. Then a nerdy-looking
guy raises his hand, irresistibly tantalized by the opportunity to show-up Yetter's golden
boy. I call upon him. He consults his laptop computer for a moment. Then, reading from his
computer screen, he asks an extremely intricate and long-winded question relating to an
obscure area of the law. As he spits out mouthfuls of polysyllabic legal jargon, everyone
in the room is riveted, studying my expression, wondering if I'll have the answer. When he
finishes reciting his question, he looks up from his computer directly into my eyes, and,
with a smug look on his face, asks pointedly, "So, what's the answer?" You can
hear a pin drop as I rub my chin pensively. Then I say: "Yetter knows that one."
So if an NHE reader asks you about the mathematical equation on page 254 of NHE or about
the relationship between anabolic intensity and qualitative progression, you can simply
say: "Faigin knows that one."
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